The Child’s Sacrifice

Molluck took a deep breath in to calm his racing heart. Though he appeared calm and collected from the outside and even his detractors had to admit that he looked as pristine and perfect as always, he was, in fact, more nervous than he ever remembered being. As he stood on his podium, with his escort Slig on his side, a single fact hung above his head, like a meat saw ready to process his entire being: This was it. The moment that would decide whether he could save himself or not. If this gambit was lost, he was as good as dead. With an almost imperceptible glance to the side of the room, he noted an open door and through it a pair of orange eyes peering inside. Without visibly acknowledging it, he turned towards his valet and nodded.

“A’ight, Boss,” he chippered with gusto as he pressed a small switch hidden in his palm. The projector hanging over their head snuffed out for a moment, only to light up again in a blaze of glory, showing a brand new product. For a moment the room went silent, save for the deafening thuds of Molluck’s heart, then, as if floodgates were opened, he was suddenly swept away by incredulity and confusion at the projected gains. He asked for the next slide and, gathering all his charisma and force, bellowed “We’ll chop ‘em up!”

The results were immediate and unmistakable. With the doubts now dispelled and the future revealed in crystal clarity, his peers screamed in elation and approval: Molluck did it again.

He did it.

And yet, now that he was past the hardest moment, the roaring cheers and encouragements barely registered. He talked and smiled through the reception like a puppet, without even being sure how long the whole event lasted, inside begging to be allowed to leave.

After the meeting finally ended and he began to descend the main elevator with his valet, he was once more left in silence to contend with his thoughts. There was only one thing on his mind: What happens now? The question was so burning, he didn’t even notice that his shoe began to involuntarily thump at the same rhythm as his racing heart, until his Slig finally let out an awkward cough.

“Uhh, Boss, is everything okay?” he asked, slightly pulling in his neck in anticipation of a verbal smackdown.

Molluck, however, remained silent. For a moment the mental image of chomping his cigar in half and chocking on the stem flashed through his mind, but he chased it away. Then he also considered pushing his valet off the lift for his insolence and to let off a bit of steam, but the idea wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he expected it to be. He was going to need all the hands he could get soon anyway. Finally, he relented, with all that’s been hanging in the air, a moment of weakness couldn’t worsen the situation.

“A bad Moon’s about’ta rise, Chauffeur” he stated blankly.

Chauffeur scratched his neck to hide his shock. Molluck using his name sent a bad feeling down his spine. Not that he was really called Chauffeur, but it both described his role pretty well and with there being only two other options Glukkons reserved for his kind–these being “you” and “piece of shit”–he wasn’t one to complain. Still, being addressed this directly was something the boss only ever did when he was particularly upset and it didn’t take a Shrink to figure out that this was an exceptional case.

“Uh, we don’t really have windows, so you don’t have to worry about that.” His quip was met with two burning embers staring down at him.

“Imbecile,” Molluck snapped, but with the same breath his shoulders slumped. Before he could say another word, exhaustion caught up to him and he fell into an uneasy dream of the night prior, standing straight up.

The Vault hung precariously over a giant pit in the heart of RuptureFarms. It was partly a safe room, partly a treasury, and–as it overlooked all main operations–partly a physical representation of Molluck’s power of the facility. There were a scant few things Molluck liked, even less he loved, but spending time in here was one of his favourite pastimes during the calmer periods of the pit-fights of business.

It was a corner he could keep under lock and key, where he could be alone with only his thoughts, his money, and the knowledge that there wasn’t a soul on Oddworld who could bother him during these brief moments of sanctity. A place where he could admit, that…

“Things aren’t going too well,” he muttered as he slowly stepped from one corner of the plushly-carpeted room to the other. He had his bean-counters calculate it five times, but each result concurred: His livestock was disappearing faster than they could replenish supplies and in months or perhaps mere weeks, the factory would go under. Maybe with some smart planning, they could keep the lights on a bit longer by using the slightly more spoiled parts of the stockpiles, but one way or another the days of RuptureFarms 1029 were numbered. Molluck slowly inhaled and exhaled. That meant his own days were numbered as well. Mother did not care how the sausage was made as long as quotas were met, but for all the leniency she showed in how the business was run, she would come crashing down twice as hard at anyone she deemed a ‘slacker’. Maybe if the Brewery doubled outputs… No, it still was not nearly enough. He was a goner. The thought buried him so deep in anguish that he didn’t even hear the quiet flapping of wings behind himself.

“Quite the predicament you found yourself in, no?” a voice called out to him, breaking the heavy silence.

For a moment Molluck stood still in disbelief. That voice wasn’t his. But that wasn’t possible… He was in his vault. Nobody could enter here without him knowing. He spun around clumsily and the sight sent his already nervous brain into overdrive. Who stood in front of him was no other than a Mudokon, adorned in red paint, his face shrouded by a gigantic mask, whose blank eyes stared deeply into Molluck’s hollow soul.

“Who… who the hell are you?” he demanded. His seething rage quickly turned to terror as he noticed a spear almost as tall as the room itself in his hands. “One more step and I’ll have you shot and stuffed.” Though the words rang false even to his own ears. This was his sanctum. There were no cameras, no microphones here. The only way to open this vault from the outside was to present a sample of his own blood and voice. His perfect castle became his perfect prison.

The masked Mudokon chuckled quietly. “Ask first and shoot immediately afterwards? I’m glad your kind is at least taking baby-steps.” He took a step closer. “Go ahead then, shoot me.”

“The name’s Molluck, son of Queen Margaret. If you lay as much as a dirty finger on me, you’ll bring down the hammer of my family on you.” Molluck was disgusted at himself for how pathetic he sounded, but with no guards, no plan, and nowhere to run or hide, he was at the mercy of his own words and his captor’s whims.

“I know who you are, murderer. I know what you did and I know where it got you.” With each word the stranger closed the distance, until the two were at arms reach. “I also know that no help is coming. You are just as caged as the thousands violated under your command.” He readied his weapon. Even though Molluck was a head taller, that only brought his neck closer to BigFace’s spear. Molluck closed his eyes and winced, expecting the stab. However, after a moment that felt like eternity, nothing happened. He carefully opened his eyes again.

“Since I know who you are, you should know who I am too.” The Mudokon took a step back, allowing a little bit of breathing room. “In my tribe I am known by the name BigFace. Breathe easy, son of Margaret, if my intentions were to snuff out your flame, you would not have been given the opportunity to speak. But your reckoning, though close, need not necessarily be this day.”

Molluck’s fearful eyes immediately gained a slight glint. “You wanna do business with me,” he finished the thought, his voice a bit firmer than before.

BigFace let out a mirthless snort. “If you insist to call it that, yes, there is in fact something I wish to negotiate for. But I know your kind and you should know your place. Your business is doomed and your mortal coil is about to unwind. Whether I end your life here or your own kin a little while later is of no great consequence.”

Molluck, however, stood his ground. “So what’s your angle? What deal are you try’na cut”

“There is a Prophecy. It is as old as time.” Though Molluck could not see him behind the mask, BigFace’s voice betrayed a sense of longing. He lowered his weapon. “A promise if you will. Of better times and a resurgence many think unbelievable. My ancestors waited one generation after the other for the stars to align, but they never did.” He ran his fingers down his spear’s hilt. “Until now. The elders finally think this moment is what we were waiting for.” He paused for a second, then pointed at Molluck with his empty hand. “However, to kickstart the prophecy, we need a spark.”

Molluck looked down at the hand before meeting the mask’s eyes again. “I deal in livestock. Animals. Raising ‘em, killing ‘em, the inbetweens. Communing with dirt and rocks just ain’t my business. Even if I was tryin’a help, I don’t see what’cha want me to do.”

“Despite the circumstances, it hurts me to hear how oblivious you are to your own legacy,” BigFace said with a slight shake of his head. “But you misunderstand me, I’m not asking you to conduct any rituals. The reason I’ve been sent here is simple. I was ordered to kill you here and now. The far-seers have foretold that your sycophants will destroy each other in the fight to succeed you. In no time this headless machine will catch on fire and the Savior shall find their way to his home, lit by the sacrifice of his ninety-nine brothers, who would not survive the inferno.”

Molluck glanced at the spear in BigFace’s hand, which remained firmly planted to the ground. “But I ain’t dead yet.”

“Yes, because of a premonition of my own. Simply put, I believe there to be another way. A deal, as you put it. If you promise to do two things and stand by your word, in return I promise not only not to kill you, but also allow you a chance to escape your inevitable fate when the time is right.”

“It feels’ta me you’ve not given me much of a choice.” Molluck flashed his tobacco-rotten teeth. “Name your terms.”

“Remember these words well. Tomorrow, just after the grand meeting, you will face a wave of breakout attempts. These will be orchestrated by one of us. You shall recognise him by his blue skin. You shall arrange for him to see something he should not and, once he tries to make his escape, you shall give him a fighting chance. Whether he rises to the occasion or falls for your traps afterwards is in his own hands.”

“You’re asking me to assist in busting out my own sla-?” Molluck bit his tongue and cursed himself for letting his mouth run.

“You don’t have to be so polite,” BigFace growled. “We know the hellish conditions you keep them. They are indeed slaves. And no, I’m not even asking you to help him. Only to give him a moment of respite, so that he has a chance to prove his mettle. What you do afterwards is your own choice.”

Molluck turned around and looked out the window of the Vault. Outside a myriad of hanging cages like torn-open rib-cages looked back at him, each housing two or three Mudokons. He stared at them for a second, his orange eyes reflecting on the dark glass, before turning back. “My employees are docile and obedient. Blue or otherwise, none of them would be daft enough to think of a revolt.”

“On that we are in agreement.” BigFace nodded. “Not by themselves, anyway. But tell me, do you know what your name means? Or, rather, who it means?”

“My name?” Molluck furrowed his brows, the lights of his eye shimmering uneasily like a pair of old gas lamps. “What’s that have to do with anythin’?”

“Indeed, your name! It is more important than even your ego would let you think. Did you know that before your kind was lost to myopic denial, you had spirits and gods of your own?”

“Bullshit!” Molluck spat back with ire, his eyes shifting to red.

“Whether you believe me or not doesn’t really matter to me.” The masked Mudokon shrugged, undeterred by Molluck’s outburst. “Consider it a story then. Among these many gods some were benevolent and called upon often and with trust. Some were whimsical, treated with as much respect as wariness. And some, well, some were shunned, called upon only to curse and despoil. For they are destruction and calamity personified and their very names invite ill fortune.”

“And?”

“And one of them in particular bore a name quite similar to yours. The exact spelling was lost to time, but cautionary tales passed down still whisper of the one they called Molek.” The Glukkon could have sworn that he saw darkness seep from the mask’s carved eyes darkening the very room itself. “The shunned and forsaken god who provided great and terrible power and immeasurable riches to those, who offered children to him in ritual sacrifice.”

“Killin’ kids? Ridiculous!” Molluck spat back. “I don’t care what your backwards tribal crap says ‘bout my name, that ain’t nothing like me. I just process animals.” Before he could say another word, he was silenced by BigFace’s spear smashing against the carpet with a hollow thud.

“You who grew fat on the blood of all the beings slaughtered here bear plenty resemblance to your namesake.” He could barely keep his voice down. “Those animals have been sacred to us for millennia before your people forced yourself upon these lands.”

“Whaddaya want then?” Despite his predicament, Molluck’s patience for these riddles was running out. “Want the flesh? I can give you all I still have stockpiled. Moolah? I can pay for the ones I’ve sold. Take what’ya here for and if it’s ain’t enough…” Molluck couldn’t finish the sentence. He keeled over in pain as BigFace withdrew the dull end of the spear from his abdomen.

“We have no need for mutilated corpses or the blood-soaked tokens of your greed. No, in fact, what I’m asking you is to continue doing what you do best.” BigFace ran a finger down his chest. “To slaughter children.”

“How?” Molluck groaned, as he slowly straightened up.

“What else are those docile and obedient workers if not children to someone like you?” asked BigFace bitterly as placed a piece of parchment on a desk next to Molluck. “You shall live up to your name. This is what you will announce on tomorrow’s meeting.”

Molluck’s eyes ran across the lines of text and a crude, gruesome sketch. His skin turned pale as he comprehended their meaning. “This is… This is crazy!” He let out a weak laugh in incredulity. “Even if I can peddle this to the Board, this will bankrupt me in seconds! And… and if it ever gets out, it’d be a right scandal! The moneybags and the bleedin’ hearts would whine until I’m right outta’ the family!”

BigFace sighed. “I told you. The slaughterhouse will burn. With or without you.” His voice hardened. “Your only choice here is whether you walk out of here with your fate still to be decided or whether you make my job very easy.”

Molluck remained silent for what felt like minutes. Finally, like a cornered beast ready to gnaw off its own limbs, he leaned forward to meet BigFace eye to eye.

“Alright. Alright. Point taken. I’ll do what you want.”

“Swear it.” Once more, Molluck found the spear pointed at his neck, this time its tip nicking the skin. “We must know your true colors.”

He glanced at the weapon, his gaze now unwavering. “I swear it.”

BigFace nodded and pulled his weapon back. Molluck continued with one final question. “There’s just one thing I don’t get. Why are you asking me to chop up your own guys?”

The Mudokon turned around and began to make his way towards the other corner of the room. A few steps in he stopped and looked slightly back. For the first time, Molluck could see glimpses of his actual face. “You are under false impressions. I was sent here with a single goal in mind. That is to allow the Prophecy to unfold.” His voice lowered to a pious whisper. “And while I could have accomplished this in a far more direct way”—he glanced at his spear—“that would have resulted in senseless carnage and the unavoidable death of my brethren here.” He chuckled, this time with actual spirit in his voice. “While it ultimately rests on the shoulders of the Savior to decide who gets to live and die, you could consider this my gambit to buy the chance for ninety-nine innocent souls to live for the price of saving one more who should rightfully die. I shall see you tomorrow.”

In that very same moment, Molluck was blinded by a flash of light and in place of BigFace, he saw a flow of birds, who quickly disappeared into the nooks and crannies of the vault.

“Um, Boss? Hello? Boss?”

Molluck awoke to Chaffeur gently prodding his suit.

“Huh, wha-?” He looked around blearily, noticing he was still descending on the lift in the very same spot he dozed off.

“Deepest apologies, Boss!” Chauffeur continued with an exaggerated bow, almost falling out of his pants. He pointed at his arm, which had a small transceiver on it. “I just got news from the OpSec team. They noticed an escapee. Some blue freak of a Mudokon, called Abe. They’re asking… Should we, uh, shoot him or?”

Molluck winced as he felt the hands of Fate on his neck. “No.”

“Uh, no, Sir?”

“No,” Molluck repeated forcefully, the cogs of his tired mind scraping against each other as he tried to come up with a serviceable excuse. “A freak like him would sell for a pretty bag of cash on the next Slave ‘X’ Change. Give ‘im a couple minutes to get back. Drag him back by the neck if you can, but no guns. If he ain’t changing his mind in that time, shred ‘em.”

“I, uh, roger that.” Chaffeur raised his arm and spoke into it. “You heard all that guys?”

“Loud and clear,” buzzed the device.

“Odd, ya’ being so lenient today, Boss,” Chauffeur said, as dropped his hand back. He decided to push his luck further. “Is this because of that Moon stuff? Excuse the word, but you’re acting quite peculiar today.”

“Get the blimp set up,” Molluck replied drily.

“Sure thing, Boss! Where are we going today, Boss?”

Molluck sighed. “With any luck, nowhere.”

Below them, deep in the bowels of the machine, a Savior began his journey, one saved soul at a time.